the open fire and the shuffle of our feet
by brickroad16
Summary: When Sybil finds herself inundated with worries, her husband is the only one who can cheer her. S/B. Spoilers for season two.


**Title**: the open fire and the shuffle of our feet**  
>Author<strong>: brickroad16/inafadinglight**  
>Rating<strong>: K/G**  
>CharactersPairing**: Sybil/Branson**  
>Spoilers<strong>: For 2.06.**  
>Summary<strong>: When Sybil finds herself inundated with worries, her husband is the only one who can cheer her.**  
>Disclaimer<strong>: I don't own anything. _Downton Abbey_ belongs to Julian Fellowes. "Old Old Fashioned" is written and performed by the band Frightened Rabbit.**  
>AN**: I found this mostly finished on my hard drive while digging through my documents. I wrote it back in October, when I had heard about the events of season two but hadn't watched any. Thought I'd give it a polish and put it up.

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><p><em>Put the wall clock in the top drawer<br>Turn off the lights so we can see  
>We will waltz across the carpet<br>1-2-3, 2-2-3  
>So give me the soft, soft static<br>Of the open fire and the shuffle of our feet_  
>- "Old Old Fashioned," Frightened Rabbit<p>

She doesn't look up from the letter she's reading as he walks through the door of their cottage. The letter is from Mary, and she can't seem to tear her eyes away from her sister's handsome, flowing penmanship. No one else in her family has condescended to approve of this life she's chosen – one in which she walks, not before the man she loves because of class differences, not behind him because of gender differences, but _beside_ him – but Mary has always had more heart than she liked to display, even if it's taken the patience and sweetness of a Manchester clerk-turned-war veteran to make her realize it.

Mary writes of home, of the place she once knew as the only place in the world. So much has changed since the days when she used to race across the yard pretending she was a bandit chasing runaway princesses, or when she spent an entire winter curled up in the library devouring every book within her reach, or even when she began to realize that the servants were more than simply servants, but people as well, and when pushing so hard to help Gwen get a job as a secretary made her see she was meant for more than a life of frocks and dinner parties and idleness. Mary writes of the family, of how Edith talks of going to university, of how Matthew continues to regain his spirit with each passing day. She barely mentions their parents, only to say, "They will come round. Don't fret."

But she cannot help it. She frets because Tom works sunup to sundown to provide for her, because his family still sees her as a privileged Englishwoman, because they spend so much time and energy trying to survive that neither of them quite knows how to begin living. She's volunteered as a nurse for the cause, and she is glad to be of use, but Tom is such a firebrand, oftentimes going straight from the office to meetings and coming home dead tired. She dreads the day _he_ is the one brought in to the tiny backroom of the general shop they use as a hospital, his face so smeared with blood it's nearly unrecognizable. She has a right to fret for the life of her husband.

He pauses in the doorway. She can feel his gaze as he takes stock of the room, but still she doesn't look up. Her hair is a mess, wisps escaping from her plait to curl around her cheeks. There are blood stains on the skirt of her dress where her apron didn't quite cover it, from when a man had been brought in that afternoon, bloody and bruised from a beating. Supper sits half-prepared, but at least she hasn't burned the food today. The only light in the room comes from the flickering candle by which she's been reading, because she's kept the curtains closed, even as the shadows deepened, so as to not have to see the mess this day has become. She can only hope that this will not become a pattern for their young life together.

He sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly. If he asks what's troubling her, the only answer she can give him is: _everything_. Instead, he crosses to the window and throws open the shabby curtains, bathing the room in the soft gray-gold light of sunset. Without a word, he opens the stove door to shovel in fresh wood atop the dying embers, blows on the coals, makes sure the new wood has caught before checking the kettle to see if it's full (it is, because she meant to and then didn't get around to making afternoon tea) and setting it on the stove top.

Her gaze drifts up as he goes about this. His suit is dirty from traipsing about for stories all day, his boots splattered with mud. The collar of his shirt, darkened with dirt, is soaked in sweat. He hasn't taken his cap off, but she can see that his hair is damp and plastered to his head. She thinks of how immaculate he always looked in his uniform – crisp green suit, combed hair – and she wonders if he misses it. He strikes a match and lights a second candle, the dim flame briefly illuminating his cheek before he moves away.

Her eyes drop to the letter once more as he turns abruptly. But then he's in front of her, on one knee. One hand curls around her fingers while the other gently removes Mary's letter from her grasp and sets it on the table. She finally meets his eyes as he pulls her to her feet.

They're blue, stunning and pure, eyes that stir such warmth in her, eyes that make her laugh, eyes that always say exactly what he's feeling. Eyes that constantly shine for love of _her_.

He places his right hand on her waist and takes hers in his left. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he takes a step backward. She follows instinctively, left foot matching his right, and the next thing she knows, he's humming and leading her around the tiny room, doing his very best to squeeze them through the space between the table and the side wall without missing a beat. She used to dance the waltz in grand ballrooms, giant open halls where men treated her like a princess, but she's floating now, as she never did then.

"What are you doing?" she asks with an amused chuckle.

Tom smiles brightly. "Why, dancing with my wife, of course." They come to a stop in front of the fireplace, and he drops her hand to rest his palm against her cheek. "No matter how difficult this gets, Sybil," he murmurs fervently, "never forget that I love you more than you silly English love your cold, stoic pride."

There's a sparkle in his eyes as he says it, and she feels the day's troubles slide from her shoulders to smash to the ground. There is still the worry that he will be injured, or worse, always that worry, but only he, in the space of a heartbeat, can lift her soul and remind her how lucky she truly is.

She leans forward to brush a tender kiss over his lips. "I never shall, Tom," she assures him.

Grinning, he releases her to take the teapot from the stove. She watches him quietly, a familiar stirring in her chest, as he pours the tea. He draws her to the table. She takes his hand across the corner of the table, twining her pale slender fingers with his larger, tanned ones.

"Tom," she murmurs.

He looks up, blue eyes bright.

Her thumb rubbing soft circles over his knuckles, she says quietly, "Thank you, my love."

She's not certain herself if she's thanking him for the tea or for everything he is to her, but the way his grin widens and he squeezes her hand tells him it doesn't really matter. What matters is the way her heart fills with warmth when he leans forward to press a soft kiss to her lips. What matters is that they're together.


End file.
